MV02 Death Wears a Crown (21 page)

“Of course,” said Murat.

“I want it done quietly; not a whisper. If any hint of this escapes all the rest will go to ground and we may never find them.” Napoleon rounded on Victoire. “I am grateful to you for this, Madame Vernet, but I am not pleased.”

“Nor should you be,” said Victoire. “In your position you cannot wish for covert opposition.”

“True. Very true,” said Napoleon. “General Murat will escort you home so that those watching your house will be aware of your return but may not—”

Victoire did the unthinkable and interrupted Napoleon. “You mean that you would rather compromise my reputation than put the traitors on alert,” she said bluntly.

“Precisely,” said Napoleon. “What difference can the opinion of traitors matter? We know the truth, as does your husband.”

“This is poor reward for good service, First Consul,” said Murat with an edge in his tone. “It is unfair to her and Inspector-General Vernet.”

“Sadly, yes it is, but it is excellent protection when protection is more important than gossip.” He smiled once. “A few sordid whispers so you may sleep safe in your bed.” He looked at the tall clock and shook his head. “You have done us good service, Madame, I know, and it will be acknowledged when it is prudent. In the meantime, bear with matters as they are.” He bowed slightly, then left the room by the servants’ door.

Murat strolled toward Victoire. “If it means anything, I will try to dissuade him from putting your reputation at risk.”

“Thank you,” said Victoire. “I would never think otherwise. As long as Vernet understands that I am faithful—”

“He knows you are,” said Murat, and added, “He also knows that my care for you is more than brotherly.”

“Murat!” she admonished him. “It is also less than loverlike.”

He flashed her his very best smile. “My dear Victoire, if you had a wife as unfaithful as mine, you would understand Vernet’s happiness better than you do. Oh,” he went on, “I realize I am no model husband either, but from the first Caroline has set the tone, and ... and since Egypt, since ... her death”—he was unable to speak her name—“it hasn’t seemed ... so important.”

“It’s been more than four years,” said Victoire. “Surely after this time the grief has—”

“It could be forty years and I don’t think it would make much difference.” He gave a short sigh. “I don’t know. If she had lived, I would have had to resign my commission. I’d probably have stayed in Alexandria. I wouldn’t have my command, or Caroline or ...” He shrugged. “Sometimes, late at night, I think about what my life would have been had she not been killed. I suppose I would have become a merchant, dealing with Egyptians and Europeans. I like to think we could have prospered.”

“Would it have pleased you?” Victoire asked doubtfully; try as she might, she could not picture Joachim Murat as a merchant.

He gave an elegant shrug of dismissal. “It hardly matters.
She
more than pleased me; she satisfied a hunger in my soul I did not know I had. For that I would have carried water jugs in Jerusalem,” he said solemnly, then lightened his tone a bit. “And I tell myself that with industry we could have lived very well indeed. I am a sensible man, and I work hard. A place like Alexandria rewards effort and I seize advantage when I may.” This time his manner was rueful. “There are those who would say that is precisely what I have done in marrying Caroline.”

“Is it true?” Victoire asked, as she had wanted to ask since the wedding.

“More or less.” He hitched his shoulder toward the door. “Are you ready to risk the occasional stare, my good friend?”

“Perforce,” she answered philosophically as they walked toward the door. “I only hope Madame Murat will not be too distressed.”

At this Murat only laughed.

* * *

Fouche stared across his desk at Inspector-General Vernet; between them lay the signed statements made by Querelle the night before. “You must have been most persuasive.”

“When he realized I was Victoire’s husband, I didn’t need to lift a finger. The man is a coward, as well as a traitor.” The contempt in Vernet’s voice was obvious.

“I do not like to think that General Moreau was part of them,” Fouche said slowly. “I would like to doubt but I cannot.”

“No,” agreed Vernet thoughtfully, “That is distressing news.”

“I would have preferred to find evidence against Pichegru. I want a letter or a report that links him solidly with the English spies, but it isn’t to be had. Only Moreau was foolish enough to implicate himself, while Pichegru is too canny and is ‘taking in the country’ until the Coronation. Oh, I realize that this implies his participation, but it isn’t enough. He could slip through the net if we act on what has been given. For the time being we must concentrate on Moreau. Once we have him, Moreau must be kept isolated, hidden. Pichegru has been very clever, more than I realized.” He tapped the paper with two fingers. “As it is, we will issue the warrant for General Moreau. Perhaps he will turn against the others, and we will get Pichegru that way.”

“And perhaps he will not,” said Vernet. “I want a warrant for the occupants of the house Querelle describes. With any luck he and his men will be there or at La Plume et Bougie.” He straightened in his chair. “I’ll need about a dozen men, if Querelle’s report is to be believed. I don’t want to go against armed enemies with insufficient force.”

“A good precaution,” said Fouche, and reached for a stack of paper printed with a notice of special assignment. “Take twelve and fill in the names of the men you want.”

“Thank you,” said Vernet in some surprise. “The foreigners first, I think, and then Moreau. The foreigners are more likely to be watching Moreau than he is to be watching them. We will lose fewer of them if we take them first.”

Fouche pulled at his lower lip. “Has your wife read this statement yet?”

“No,” said Vernet. “She has not been able to come to the Ministry to read it.” He regarded Fouche with uncertainty. “Is this needed? She is very tired.”

“No, no,” said Fouche, shaking his head slowly. “But I would like to hear her thoughts on this, when she has recovered from her ordeal. She has great perspicacity, your wife, and I cannot help but think that she would discover any flaw in our plans if she had an opportunity to read this material.”

“I will tell her you said so,” said Vernet, rising and taking the assignment slips. “We will be about our tasks within the hour. I’ll send word to the stable now to ready three enclosed coaches.” His salute was quick and crisp.

“Good.” Fouche offered a slow salute. “Report to me as soon as you have General Moreau in custody.”

“I will. Where do you want me to take him?” He paused. “Do you want him brought here?”

“No. Take him to the nearest guard station. I will decide what to do with him while you catch these English assassins and spies.” He gestured to Vernet to let himself out.

* * *

The old house near Saint Rafael the Archangel seemed vacant from the street, but a thin smudge of smoke from the rear chimney belied its appearance. Lucien Vernet signalled the driver to bring the coach to a halt. “Thank you, good coachman,” he called as if he had been a paying passenger; this was a signal to the coachman to turn into the next street and wait. Vernet crossed the street in an aimless sort of way, then stepped into the protection of the eaves of a tobacconist’s shop, huddling there against the fog.

The second closed coach stopped two blocks short of the supposedly empty house; the third, Vernet knew, was waiting at the edge of the churchyard of Saint Rafael the Archangel. As Vernet watched the two coaches he could see, men got out and moved into the streets. There was little traffic at this late hour and the fog shrouded everything but what was near at hand.

“Sir?” asked one of the two sergeants with him. “Are you ready?”

“I haven’t seen the third group’s signal,” said Vernet, and pointed down an alley so narrow that only a trim, scarecrow-looking fellow or a child could walk down it. “As soon as they are in place, we will move.”

“I’ll pass the word,” said the Bearnais sergeant, whose name was Dagonie. He had a long stride, one that covered ground without apparent effort.

“Well enough,” said Vernet, though he spoke to himself. He peered down the narrow passage, hoping to see the candle he had been promised; all that greeted his sight was a scrawny gray cat with large ears and a scabby tail. Vernet knew that such cats were as wild and fierce as tigers in the jungle.

Sergeant Dagonie appeared again at Vernet’s shoulder. “How goes it?”

“No signal yet,” said Vernet, who wondered idly if something might have happened to his men.

“Give them time. There’s always something going on around a church. They might have a funeral or a wedding,” said Sergeant Dagonie.

“True,” Vernet allowed.

“No one will be foolish, Inspector-General,” Sergeant Dagonie promised him.

“Pray God you are right, Sergeant,” said Vernet, then caught sight of the sliver of candlelight at the end of the passage. “There. We’re ready.”

“I’ll signal the men,” said Sergeant Dagonie laconically as if he were about to call them to order at muster instead of giving the order to break down doors.

“Good,” said Vernet, moving a little nearer the front door of the house.

There was a flurry of movement on the street, and a number of men—until then seeming to be mere passersby—took up the double V formation at the front of the house. Sergeant Dagonie slammed his fist on the door and demanded it be opened, then signalled the nearest of the Gendarmes to break in with the sledge he carried.

From inside there came the sound of sudden activity. Muffled shouts and the pounding of feet intermixed with the blows on the door.

At the third battering the door splintered. Sergeant Dagonie broke the last of the pieces and flung them away, then led his men into the house, his pistol at the ready.

Vernet remained on the street with two privates to keep anyone from attempting to get in or out. He listened to the shouts and cries and clamor, and wished he were inside rather than standing here in the fog. He rested his hand on the butt of his pistol, but that served only to remind him that he was inactive. He sighed.

Finally Sergeant Dagonie’s face appeared in one of the top windows. “We have them all, Inspector-General,” he called down. “Two tried to get away through the back but they were stopped.”

“Excellent,” said Vernet, and stepped over the threshold at last. The stark interior did not surprise him, but he hesitated before he went down the musty hallway. “How many?” he asked the nearest private.

“Twelve, sir,” said the private, speaking stiffly because he was awed.

“Very good.” Vernet peered into the front parlor, noticing that there were only two rickety stools in it, and they were placed near the front windows. Why had the watchers not warned the conspirators earlier?

“It seems they were having some kind of meeting,” the private went on, answering Vernet’s unspoken question. “There’s a room on the next floor, and six of them were still in it. There’s a table and chairs there, and two cots.”

Vernet nodded. “Good work,” he said, and saw the private blush.

At the foot of the stairs Vernet paused. He could hear his men cursing the spies as they bound their wrists and prepared to bustle them into wagons. He swung around. “Don’t injure them too badly. We still need information from them.”

A corporal with a bruise forming on his cheek looked furious. “They gave us a drubbing back there. I’d like to return the favor.”

“No,” corrected Vernet. “Your bruise will heal, but that prisoner will never recover from his injuries.”

The corporal laughed nastily. “You’re right. You’re right.” He slapped Toutdroit’s face. “Your trouble is fatal, isn’t it, boy?”

Toutdroit spat but he was pale with dread.

Vernet tapped the corporal on the arm, saying sternly, “Just get them out of here. And see they go unharmed. If anything happens to them you will answer for it.”

“You’re asking—These men are enemies of the First Consul—” blustered the corporal.

“I am asking you to show that we are not the despots of old, but a nation of justice,” said Vernet quietly. “Get them into the wagons. Now.”

The other police set about this order, hustling their captives out of the house. Vernet himself was almost to the door when one of the prisoners shouted to him. “We are not here to bargain with you, lackey,” he declared contemptuously. “We know that you will kill us no matter what we do. This politeness is nothing but sham, to take us quietly to slaughter!”

A few of the others muttered, and one or two of them struggled more forcefully with the men restraining them, and were rewarded with sharp blows.

“Stop it!” Vernet ordered. “All of you!”

It was a short while before order was restored, and at the conclusion, several of the conspirators were bruised and bleeding, including the one who had begun the incident.

“Now then,” said Vernet, adjusting his hat once again. He was breathing a little hard and his knuckles hurt; he had struck Bouelac in the jaw when that young man had futilely attempted a break for the door. “Enough of this.”

The man who had spoken first laughed condemningly. “You’re the corrupt hangers-on to a more corrupt leader. He is nothing more than a Corsican bandit, and you have all been suborned by him.”

“That is enough. If you continue to speak,” Vernet said levelly, “I will order you gagged and kept in a solitary cell.”

“Vive le Roi! Dieu defend le droit!” cried the man confronting Vernet.

“Not Dieu et mon droit?” countered Vernet sardonically, using the motto of the kings of England with full deliberation. He approached the man. “You are one of those fanatics; it is in your eyes. What is your name?”

The man refused to speak.

Vernet shrugged. “Have it your way. You will tell us eventually. Someone will if you do not—one of your men, the innkeeper at La Plume et Bougie, a witness. We will learn.” He made a gesture to his men and the captives were taken out to the closed carriages.

When the house was empty, Vernet signalled Sergeant Dagonie to his side. “Has there been a last search made?”